One of the Virgins
by kostanda
Summary: Quick little one-shot. Simply written, no drama. A priest and his wife. Inspired by Mummy movies, obviously.


I am one of forty virgins. That is my one and only identity now.

I stand in a line in front of the Egyptian Pharaoh, and he speaks with his grand and golden court in a language that seems complete and yet utterly complex to my rough hearing. My words are Phoenician, and while the two speeches are related, they have become separated with age.

Now I dare to raise my eyes – forgetting quickly that we were ordered to stare at the ground unless otherwise noted. The Pharaoh sits on his high throne. We were told he is regarded as a living god, but to me he looks like an impeccably dressed and impeccably spoiled man who is going to seed. He may have once been a brilliant athlete, but now his belly sags low, and his face is long with time. He is lucky to have lived so long.

Beside him are his viziers and counsel. I would not care about these, but I am bored and nervous – we have been brought all the way from the southern Levant, from the warring small nations to be traded as aid. Our brothers and fathers are weary with the feuds, and wish for Egypt's alliance. We are weary with the travel. Our families think perhaps forty virgins will appease the Pharaoh, and bring his good will. I am looking at the faces of the men above us, and I am not so confident.

I will not mind the stay in Egypt, at least, in the vicinity of the palace. It is beautiful here, and clean and orderly. I think with practice I can learn the language of the Nile. I hear the harems are kind to women who know their place. I will know my place.

Now I stare at each of the counsel members. Many are covered in sacred emblems, heavy with gold and ornate gowns. I am fascinated at the powders and coals they wear on their faces. As my eyes drink in their stance and their gesturing hands, I am struck cold when my gaze wanders across one of the viziers. He is watching me, and his black eyes bore holes into my green ones. He knows I've been observing, and has been waiting to catch me at it. I immediately drop my gaze to the floor. My heart is pounding – I am not bored any longer.

We wait in a line, and I hear a deep baritone speaking in authoritative tones. I dare not look up to see who speaks. The others are silent in answer, and the Pharaoh's distinctive tenor rings out. Guards advance on us, and we are marched in succession in front of the Pharaoh, who looks at us with eyes both shrewd and excited. My stomach curdles. I do not anticipate my turn with his bed.

As the line finishes, I see him turn and mumble something to his right, and we are halted as he comes down the dais and paces in front of us. The viziers have begun to disperse, but out of the corner of my eye, I see the strong counselor, as his white robes are obvious amid the gold and bronze of the room. He is still waiting…he is watching me, but I see his eyes are watching the actions of the Pharaoh as well.

Quickly, I remember my place, and keep my eyes on the ground. As I concentrate on the square tiles before me, two feet are planted in my line of sight. There is a sudden, tight grip on my arm, and I look up, startled.

Staring directly into my eyes is the Egyptian Pharaoh, and I know he has chosen me to first please his bed that night. So soon! I have not prepared myself well, I feel my mind repelling the idea, and I instinctively give a little shrug.

He narrows his eyes and grips tighter, and my eyes widen in fear. Will he punish me for disobedience easily? And then his long thin mouth gives a bark-like laugh, and he tosses words over his shoulder.

I am suddenly whirled through the air, a guard on my elbow, as I am deposited in front of the same vizier I fear. I do not make the same mistake, and keep my eyes on his bare toes.

There is a stiffening in him, and he calls to Pharaoh, who answers with a mocking tone, and I feel the man in front of me fill with defiance and unwillingness. But there is aught to be done, for the Pharaoh is Egypt's god, and after a long moment, I am grabbed roughly by the vizier, and marched out to the darkness.

I see other heads bobbing out of the murkiness, dressed in ghostly white, and I cry out a warning – something is unnatural. The man holding my arm halts without warning, and hisses a word at me – I am to keep silent.

We continue the long trek across the courtyard, and I see now that the men are priests. Who, then, is this man holding my arm, and where is he taking me?

Fear continues to bubble in me. We are not on the way to the harem. I feel suddenly naked and alone – there is no talk and banter with the other girls, I am lost in the Egyptian darkness, latched to a man I fear.

We walk briskly into a building, and I am released, as he steps in front of me again. With a firm fist, he raises my chin to his in the inky glow of temple torches, and I do not even register his face; behind him I see a terrible visage. A cry rips raggedly from me, and I back up, only to bump into another statue, holding what looks like a bloody sacrifice. Blindly, I realize I am to be killed in this temple, and given to a cruel Egyptian god.

I turn on my heel again, and see yet a taller, and more terrible statue of the dog-headed god, and I cover my eyes in fright. I am frozen, and yet terrified, and I turn to run yet again, but I come against a hard wall. Arms are an iron band around my shoulders, my face pressed to oiled skin that smells of musk and incense.

"Please no," I am whispering over and over in my native language. "I do not wish to die."

"Die?" It is his baritone answering me, speaking in a halting accent. "You are not going to die." There is hostility in his voice, but he is not hurting me, and I slowly back out of his arms, so we stand, facing each other.

"You know my tongue." I am surprised and grateful. He nods slowly, and answers with obvious thinking,

"Phoenician is the mother tongue of the language of the Nile. It is rightful that I should know it. A high priest is pressed to know all tongues."

A priest himself! I am surprised.

"Why did you bring me here?"

A sneer writes itself across his handsome face. "Seti feels it is time I take a wife. He has given me you."

There is a sound like a wind, and I know it is my own shock. "I am your concubine?"

He waits and thinks on my last word, and at last answers. "No. Seti has demanded we be husband and wife. I am not pleased. I hoped to choose my own."

His words are spoken with finality, and it is only after he shows me small quarters in the depths of the inner temple that I realize he is master of his own mind. This priest I am now tied to had no wish for me, and will obey his Pharaoh only in public act, but not in private deed. I am at once grateful and dismayed. What is to become of my future in the palace now? Saved from the old Pharaoh's bed, I now see my life stretched out as cold and lonely as the cold rooms I am granted.

I sleep fitfully, and awake with watery beams of sunlight on my face. I sit up, and look about me with uncertainty. There is no direction, and no women to speak to. I am once again lost.

Before I think further, the sunlight is blocked by a hard, dark shadow. Immediately, I am on my feet, but I forget to bow my head and look the high priest in the face fully. I see at once that my forwardness surprises and angers him, but then there is no other emotion on the smooth planes of his face. This hurts me – until I realize that he has no interest in my company or my feelings.

He throws a large bundle at my feet. Again, the deep baritone says in my language,

"You are my wife to the public. My priests know that it is false, but it must not be known to Seti that I disobey him so completely. I have found you two handmaidens that suit this purpose, and you will meet them in the baths now. They will teach you the ways of the wives of honor. Every day you will see me, and I will teach you what is expected as wife of high priest."

With a curt nod, he turns on his heel and leaves as silently as he comes. I am overwhelmed but find a small token of purpose. There are duties I must do—I draw my shoulders up. I will play the part, perhaps find some joy in the actions, and live my life as a priestess. I have functions at least, and perhaps will not be bored overmuch.

My is very good, and I am cleaner now than I have ever been. My two handmaidens clean under my nails and in my ears. My skin is rubbed pink, but I feel refreshed. I am only angry that my two handmaidens are dumb.

Marching into the quarters I am to meet the high priest, I find I am fuming at his meddling, but still afraid to speak openly with him. He looks up as I enter, but does not get a chance to talk before I ask,

"Why have you done this? I am displea—disappointed with your choice of handmaidens."

He has the grace to glance away, but is not ashamed. "They serve a purpose. You cannot worry of gossip."

"Do you think I should tell them of our private pact? That I am—and never will be—your true wife?" I am surprised at how venomous I say this, and realize I am irked at him for this decision as well.

He shrugs, and says without hesitating, "A woman's tongue cannot be trusted. You may speak of your...frustrations...with them, whatever they may be, and I can be sure it will not be repeated."

"You do not trust me. You will not tolerate me in your quarters, even to cook as a wife should. You judge me quickly, milord." I find my voice lowering with rising anger.

He comes to me swiftly, and grabs my chin roughly, his fingers bruising my flesh. "I do not know you." He seems to think this answer enough for his actions, and drops his hands, moving away.

The discussion is closed.

We spend some of the afternoon talking of order and of routine. I learn fast; it is a way of my people. I am refreshed with conversation, and say as much as evening grows, and we are interrupted by his priests lighting the torches.

"It is unusual for a woman to be interested in affairs of state," says my husband. His voice has softened with the hours, and I notice that his eyes smile at me without thinking.

I laugh at him, and brush my hair from my face. It is soft and clean with the morning wash.

"You do not know the ways of women. We like to speak of things together, and with two dumb maidservants, I fear you will get the brunt of my tongue, as my only conversation will be this," I gesture to the table brimming with papyrus.

"That," he says lightly, "Is why you have dumb handmaidens."

"Husband, as I say, you know nothing of women!" I laugh at him. "What do you think it is we speak of? Our men, our children, our cosmetics, our bed—." Here I stop, as my throat chokes, and I see his eyes darken at me. I think I have ruined my chance to find favor with him. I perhaps should not have called him husband.

He leaves me then, and I am alone to eat, and alone to sleep.

This is a pattern of many months.

It stretches to years.

I am fond of my handmaidens, and love my time in learning the affairs of state. I enjoy that I am a powerful woman at court, though I have had few occasions to practice the learned etiquette. He is careful to keep me inside the temple, mostly, and I wonder at it, until I realize it is because he is uncomfortable to be seen with a woman. He still does not wish a wife, no matter the time that passes.

We sometimes latch onto an understanding, and he has requested that I dance for him on the feasteve of Osiris.

I practice that now, and am interrupted in the midst of my movement when he storms into the empty courtyard.

He is so upset, he does not see me, and goes straight to the large looming statue that rests in the far end of the garden. I stand still—I have not hidden, but his back is to me, and I am curious at his torture.

"My lord!" he wails, and drops to his knees, arms outstretched. I have learned Egyptian enough now that I can understand him, and am struck silent at his outcry.

"My lord Anubis! Remove my sin from me! I am proud and insolent! I have endured much in my life, and I have been stiff-necked in my control of life. I should thank you for your gift to me, and be grateful to Seti. But I have been foolish. And now I am too ashamed…" He drops down, and cradles his head to the ground, crouched into a ball at the feet of his god, and suddenly I can move again.

I think he is weeping, and at first I think to leave him in his grief. But he is my husband, and though I know he does not welcome me, my womanly instincts wish to comfort him. I bear him no ill will, and actually have come to admire him for the few times he shows me kindness.

He is many mysteries to me, thought I think I have grown to care for him deeply, but I know enough that to dwell on such emotion would leave me bitter, for I would miss even more his smile, his praise, and his bed, all of which I must live without.

Quietly, and slowly, I bend to him, and touch his shoulder. He snaps his head up, and I see panic in his eyes, but when my eyes meet his, he slumps down, and grasps my hand. He tugs on my fingers, so I am brought to my knees next to him, and quietly wait for him to speak. It is useless for me to pry it out.

"My…" Here he pauses, and looks at me with a raw, horrified look that I wish to wipe from his face - the look does not suit him. He gulps air, and asks, haltingly, "Wife…I do not even know your name!"

I smile sadly at him. This is something I have long noticed, and it is the first time he has acknowledged me as his wife. Now I tell him, "My home name is Lehliah, but I shall change to an Egyptian name if it is your wish."

"No, Lehliah," he quickly leans in, and touches my hand to his forehead. "Your name is beautiful and you will keep it." His head comes up again, and he divulges, "I am Aapep."

This I know, as I have seen his seal on papers, and have learned enough to decipher it, but I do not tell him this now, and I smile and nod at his admission. Still, I do not interrupt him, and let his words come out, fast and hot and fresh, for his face is still damp with unshed tears. Never has my husband been so open with words.

"I have come from Seti, who questions your absence much. I have been prideful in defying him. And today, he taunted my fertility, and yours, and Lehliah…I was suddenly angry at Seti for speaking of you with scorn, and I realized that instead of insolence toward you, and anger at your presence in my temple, I was overwhelmed with the thought of children, and you… And I am ashamed of my quick words in the beginning, and my ignorance of you. You are a good woman, a good wife. You have learned fast and well. I have been prideful, so proud that if you were not here now, I do not think I could have said this much to you."

I am shocked at his confidence in me, and lean in to wrap my arms about his shoulders. It is surprising when he reacts by grabbing my waist, and pulling me half to his lap, his face buried with a delicious tingle into my neck. I feel the dampness of his sweat, and the prickle of day-old growth on his chin, and I hope I have found a new place in this temple, and in this life.

We begin to take meals together, and I begin to see desire in his eyes, especially when I dance for him. He starts to touch me, and he is forceful in taking me to public eyes, and parades me on his arm, finally at ease with a wife. I react to his nearness, for I have always found him handsome, and I itch at the thought of his bed.

I am surprised he still hesitates to take me, and finally I take the initiative when we sit at supper one eve. I look at him, and his eyes are on my face, and they travel my curves along the byssus gown he has recently bought for me.

In a bold move, I take his hand, and place it palm up on my belly. He stands before me, and does not ask a question.

"You and I, we ache for children? Our children?" He nods at my words. "I ache for your bed desperately, my husband Aapep. I find myself on fire at your touch."

This is all it takes, and I yelp with happy laugher, as he takes me up in his arms, and carries me to the large bed in the corner. He is gentle to me, and I am surprised at his quiet ways, until he tells me that since taking a wife, he has not touched another.

Thus my identity finally changes, for truly, I am no longer just one of the forty virgins.


End file.
